


Private Meetings

by GirlquinndreameR



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 19:10:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11973840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlquinndreameR/pseuds/GirlquinndreameR
Summary: They just kept running into each other at these parties. Their meetings seemed innocent enough. At first.





	Private Meetings

Private Meetings

Fandom: Ouran High School Host Club

Characters: Ootori Kyouya / Houshakuji Renge

Notes: Back on FF.Net, I wrote two long chapter pieces on these two. I thought I was done. And yet, every now and then, I revisit them, put it away, and then find random writings two years later. To be quite honest, this is pretty extreme, in terms of me writing these two in this kind of relationship. However, if you do indeed take the time and read it, thanks.

Rated M for mature.

* * *

 

 

These meetings started a while ago. They were familiar faces in a sea of dresses, suits and business cards. He was unavoidable, five feet - eleven inches, tall, elegant and slender stance, wrapped in a suit perfectly tailored, with a set of brown-grey eyes that seemed to stare right through you. And she stood five foot - four, pure peach-ivory skin, adorned in the latest fashion and jewels, long silky dark blonde hair and brown eyes with speckles of amber and gold.

 

They had spotted each other from across the room and decided to give salutations (they had forgotten who approached first, but it was her). Hello. How are you doing? How is college? What are you studying now? 

 

Her father was an important distributor and advertiser for the Ootori’s European sector, so whenever there were meetings, she was there. He later found out that she wasn’t there to show off for her father, but she was in fact there to learn. Learn how the business worked, learned how the world (his world) operates. 

 

The next meetings that followed were innocent enough. They would sit together at a table for a few minutes and catch up, and then he would leave her to mingle with other associates. Ten minutes turned to twenty, twenty turned to thirty, fourty, an hour… He wondered if they would run out of things to say. 

 

But she never did. It could be about an impractical teacher, asking him advice about juggling business and school, her recent vacays to exotic lands, even something as mundane like her criticizing the wine the host chose (French people take wine very seriously, she told him once). He would listen to be polite, but then he would listen because she would have things to say.

 

Once, he saw her dad at another party, but not her. He knew she was there, she was always there. So, he decided to leave the ballroom to search for her. After a few minutes, he did find her, sitting by herself in the stairwell. Her hiccups and sniffs echoed through the hollow staircase, the sounds bouncing off the concrete and metal. 

 

“He dumped me,” she told him and took a long drink from the wine bottle. 

 

He said nothing, just sat beside her and took a slow drink of the red wine, thick and strong, coating the back of his teeth. They drank and drank until there was only an inch left of liquid left in the bottle. 

 

He was far more sober than she was, but he did not protest as she leaned forward and kissed him square on the lips. He kept very still, tasting the wine on her tongue and lips, smelling it on her breath, let her pour her low self-esteem and frustration through her mouth. He just let her because, well, she needed to. They were friends, he guessed. Casual friends, but still friends. 

 

She took a deep breath and gently sat back from him. “Hmmm…” she breathed, her palm sitting on the left side of his chest, “I… better stop.”

 

That night, he wondered, how would kissing her be like without all that alcohol taste?

 

At the next party, she pulled him aside, into an adjacent hallway from the ballroom, away from the familiar crowd. She thanked him, for letting her lament over that good for nothing ex-boyfriend. “But, you know,” she tried to explain, “kisses are common forms of affection in Europe. Even America. Between friends.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“So… um…” she tiptoed off her high heeled sandals and reached his lips with her own, kissing him on the lips. It was a chaste kiss at first, closed mouth, but it lasted a lot longer than she intended. She grabbed fistfuls of his lapel; a prick on her finger from his suit pin sent her back to reality. She fell back to her feet, her eyes glazed over. She blinked, once, twice, and then let out an uncomfortable laugh. “Ah-hah, um, shall we get back to the party?”

 

He never imagined that kissing her would be that mind-consuming. He couldn’t stop thinking about it, whether he was in class, at work, or hanging out with Tamaki. And the way she reacted, she must have felt it too.

 

He got his answer one night when she took him by the hand and dragged him out of the party. As the party continued in the ballroom at full swing, she pulled him to another part of the hotel, into a dark hallway near the entrance to the stairwell, pinned him against the wall, and pulled him down by his tie, landing a kiss right on his lips. She hooked her hands around his neck, keeping him in place so she could keep contact. When she released the vice around his neck, she looked up to him with desperate and pleading eyes. “Please tell me I wasn’t the only one who felt anything?”

 

He responded by crashing his lips onto hers again, pulling her up in his arms, her feet barely touching the floor.

 

And that was how it started. At every party, they would sneak away for a few minutes, find a secluded area, a dark hallway, an empty stairwell, and let out their pent up frustrations and tensions on one another. Careful not to muss her hair too much, careful not to get makeup on his collar, pinned to the cold concrete walls or hoisted up on the metal banister… They would straighten their clothes out, wipe any smudged makeup, neatly comb their hair out and then return to the party as if nothing had just transpired, careful not to raise suspicion. She would tell her father she left to powder her nose. He told his father he spotted an old schoolmate from across the hall. 

 

But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. Because each meeting lengthened and it got more difficult to pull apart. 

 

“More,” she asked with flushed cheeks.

 

He wanted to give more, but he refused. He had to. They had been away from their parents long enough.

 

She never took offense. She agreed, but sometimes, she did manage to steal an extra minute, an extra kiss right before they opened the door and returned to the real world. 

 

And it was torture to say the least. All of it was sheer torture. He began to look forward to these social gatherings, not to mingle with his father’s associates, but because he could partake in her lips, her neck, her fingertips, her skin… He hunched his shoulders, trying to concentrate over his pharmacology assignment. 

 

“Do you want to continue this somewhere else? Maybe?” she whispered in his ear one evening. 

 

He pulled away from her slightly, as far as one man could with a woman’s legs hooked around his midsection. “Like where?” he asked. So far, stairwells had been the most secluded spot they had found. 

 

“A room,” she breathed. “I reserved it. If you like.”

 

Brown-grey eyes narrowed slightly under rimless glasses. “Are you sure?”

 

“Very sure.” She untangled her legs from him and landed on a set of stairs in front of her. “Let’s show up for a few minutes, then I’ll go first. You follow.” She straightened her dress so it sat correctly on her frame. “Eleventh floor. Room 1138.” She exited the stairwell first, and he soon followed a few minutes after. 

 

Being in the ballroom was the longest ten minutes of his life. He made necessary appearances, talked to a few people here and there, and then watched in his peripheral as she left the ballroom. He waited a few more moments before he too left. He entered the elevator and ascended up to the eleventh floor. 

 

When the doors opened, he saw a glimpse of her walk down another hallway. He followed suit and found her standing in front of an open hotel room door, waiting for him. He kissed her ferociously as they clumsily stumbled into the room, the door closing on itself. 

 

They began to explore each other’s bodies in the dark, with their own hands, their lips… But they agreed to stop before it got too far. They weren’t ready. They weren’t prepared. “Besides,” she noted as he reluctantly zipped her dress up, “I left my lipstick in my purse at bagcheck.”

 

There were a few nights he had to find relief in his own hands. He would stand in the shower, slightly ashamed, still not feeling fully satisfied.

 

Each time they met in a dark hotel room, they always inched a little bit further together. They were careful to lay their clothes neatly on the desk to avoid wrinkles and questionable marks. 

 

She laid over the foot of the bed while he held himself above her on his hands and knees. His mouth tasted every inch of her: her neck, her ribs, her hip. He particularly liked tasting her breasts, perfectly shaped small round mounds. But most of all, he liked the sounds she made when he ran his tongue against her skin, running around her harden nipples in circles. How she would moan and gasp for him. She reached down and pulled the elastic of his boxer brief down to his thighs and used her hand to stroke him tenderly. It was the first contact he ever felt down there that wasn’t his own and within a few moments, he shuddered and surrendered, pouring his seed near her navel. 

 

That was a new feeling. That felt like nothing he had experienced before. He rolled over beside her on the bed. “Sorry,” he told her.

 

She didn’t seem upset. In fact, she propped herself to sit up. “I’m flattered.” They both glanced at the bedside clock. It had been an hour since they left the party. “We should get back.” She stood to clean herself, but not before cleaning his tip off with her mouth. 

 

He cursed behind clenched teeth. He didn’t know mouths and hands could feel that way.

 

Soon, it was all he could think about. Self-satisfaction wasn’t enough, even if he had a vivid memory of her mouth, the skin in between her legs, her smooth hands. He wanted to know what it felt like to experience it all. But there was no way she would agree, right? Their friendship (for lack of a better word) wouldn’t go that far. 

 

But, he was so very curious.

 

Another night of heated bodies pressed upon one another, of fingers tangled in each other’s hair, lips and teeth tracing lines on each other’s skin. She had crawled off him as he laid in the wrong direction of the bed, head towards the side, and not towards the headboard. She stood and slipped out of her thin black underwear, tossing it aside on the nightstand.

 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. 

 

“Do you want to?”

 

“Yes,” he breathed in a voice low and foreign to his own ears. 

 

She pulled out a small wrapped square foil from her clutch bag and handed it to him as he tossed his own underwear aside. He opened it and put it on, recalling instructions and tips he read in his sister’s filthy women’s advice magazines. 

 

She laid down as she cradled him in between her legs. “Be… be careful,” she requested.

 

It took a few tries, a few prods and breaks for her to adjust, but after a few moments, he was in. He was fully in. And he felt like he could die right then and there. 

 

Each time after felt more divine than the last. And he began to realize that he was one of those people who could not separate physical intimacy from emotional intimacy. Because after the endorphins had worn off, after all the ecstasy and euphoria had faded, he realized that he would be okay if the world ended with him lying in her embrace. Meetings, contracts, work, all of it could vanish, so long as his last living breath was spent with her. 

 

He cringed at his own romantic notion. Damn Tamaki, he seemed to be poisoning his mind. 

 

He watched her put her earrings on and straighten out her hair. Another party, another rendezvous in a hotel room. He sat up against the headboard in bed as she looked at herself a few more times in the mirror, applying her lipstick.

 

“Renge?” he called out.

 

She turned around to him. 

 

“Let’s see each other outside of these… private meetings. Outside of these business galas.”

 

“You mean, on our own? Like dates? Dates our friends and family will know about?”

 

“Yes,” he clarified. 

 

She smiled at him and approached him, placing a kiss on his nose. “Kyouya, I thought you’d never ask. Took you long enough.”


End file.
